Drifting to the End
by coffup
Summary: [S&S] Sakura follows a life of prostitution. In order to deal with her heinous ways, she allows her mind to “wander” or “drift.” How long can she allow her mind to wander before it wanders away? Can Syaoran stop her from losing her thoughts?
1. My Mind Wanders

Okay… I know lots of you are angered 'cause I haven't made a new chapter for **Find Hope**, but it's not my fault! I swear!_ I thank the 36 of you who took the time to review the newest chapter already._ It's my muse's fault. That _dirty_, **low-down**, **_no good_**, **_JACK ARSE_**!! He went on vacation to "invent new ideas" and took my ideas with him to "motivate him." He's been gone for weeks and has made no sign of returning. I hope he chokes on a wishbone, hits his head on a pipe, and gets some sense knocked into him. That'd teach him for leaving me.

Anyways, all of you **Wicked Heart **lovers should rejoice… I'm currently working on the third chapter. Why am I so slow? Blame it on the weatherman… or on my socials teacher; either one will do. Yes, taking summer school is a horrible thing to do, but no! I'm not stupid! I didn't fail…. I just don't have enough room in my schedule next year to take all my icky courses, so I had to take one over the summer. And, ta da! My lack of time to do anything was born! We do a chapter a day, and we've already had one test and a quiz. Our average for the test was 58%. Kind of makes you wonder what kind of mark I got, right? Well, even I don't know. He's showing us tomorrow. The highest mark was 14/16, which is about… 88%, which kind of sucks, seeing how it's barely an A. =.=

Anywho, I blather on too much, on with my foul little story I made up during break today. I hope you enjoy it, my tiny minions of doom. Er… I mean, my tiny little readers of … fanfiction. =)

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[Initial Beginning]

"…" Speech

'…' Thoughts

[…] A/N's

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Yukio and Tony and any other miscellaneous characters I may have come up with. In no way whatsoever do I have any umm... ownership thingies for CCS. _

* * *

_Drifting to the End_

_Chapter One_

_My Mind Wanders_

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As I stand on this street corner, my mind wanders. I hitch up my skirt a bit as my mind wanders. A car pulls over and the passenger door opens for me. I negotiate a price and as I enter the stranger's car, my mind continues to wander. As we drive away, my mind rambles on about random events that happened long ago. Once the stranger begins pawing at me, my mind has drifted away completely.

I start my fake moans and I centre my mind for a bit. But I only allow myself to come to terms with this dirty deed that I'm taking part in for long enough to scope out the stranger's many pockets. He has spare change and some loose bills. I take them without him noticing and place them into the hidden pocket of my skirt; the pocket of my ridiculously short skirt is full. 

Did I say he didn't notice? Perhaps he did, he's moaning even more than he was a minute ago. He probably thinks I was touching him because I wanted to. I stop myself from shuddering and let my mind ramble about once more; I'm starting to think again, that's not good.

My mind meanders off as I finish off my false orgasm. Even as I pocket my pay, my mind continues to roll about in any direction. I assure the stranger that he was the best lay that I've had in ages and continue to my mind strolls along the banks of fantasy. Allowing my mind to drift away is one of my few luxuries.

The night is dark as I saunter away from the car. The driver honks his horn once and I wave half-heartedly over my shoulder, not looking back. I won't see him again, and if I do, it will be under the cover of darkness yet again. I take great measures so that I never get good looks at my customers. It just makes it so much more real; things being real stop my drifting thoughts. The stopping of my thoughts makes it so much more real. Reality sucks and when I'm doing the things I do, I don't like to be reminded that it's real. It's so much easier to think of it as part of an act you're starring in; like you're playing a game and nobody else knows about it except you… so they all end up losing except for you.

The time is just past three o'clock, and that's three am, not three pm. I know this because of during my last round of "lovemaking" I caught a glimpse of the dashboard clock. The night wind chills my skin. Or should I say early morning wind? I haven't figured out why three am is called night while four am is morning. English is a funny language.

I know of a place not far off where I can get a frapuccino wannabe for cheap. Mike's Coffee is famous for ripping off big shot companies and using their beverages in his own shop. When I get there, I'll be able to let my mind realize just what I did tonight. I don't like thinking when I'm on the job; all that thinking makes me realize just what I'm doing at just the wrong time. I don't like it when that happens; it ruins my concentration and that in turn makes me get paid less than usual.

I smile ruefully; one does not need concentration for a job like mine. All you need is a bodily orifice or two (or three) and some good acting skills. Hell, you don't even need good acting skills; you just have to moan once in a while, and Ba-da-boom, the job's done.

I stop walking and freeze in the middle of a dark sidewalk. It's not exactly the best place for a person to stop in broad daylight, let alone in not so broad moonlight. I believe a gang holds office nearby, and there is an alleyway off to my right, which is probably swarming with homeless people, druggies, and other miscellaneous stereotypes. But right at this moment, I can't remember that; for a second, my mind really has left me.

Have you ever felt… disoriented? So disoriented that you couldn't breathe, that you couldn't move, that you couldn't do anything except wonder where you are and how exactly you got there? I always do after a hard night's work. Sometimes my disorientation is weak, and lasts only a few seconds, while at other times, it hits me so hard that I don't know the name of the bloody country I'm on, what species I belong to, let alone who the hell I am.

It's quite frightening actually. It terrifies me when it happens, 'cause sometimes, the disorientation is so complete that I forget that it can happen to me. Once, when I was younger, a few years back, it hit me so hard that I collapsed in a street full of people. I was just walking, normal walking, I had the day off and the day after that day too, so I was very happy. I decided to go shopping… but things went bad. I remember trotting down a sidewalk, smiling, staring at the window displays. Then, it hit me and I froze. Someone bumped into me, apologized and then walked off. They didn't notice what was happening to me. Then again, not a lot of people did notice. Well, not until I shut my eyes and fell over.

Let me explain. I fell and I had to shut my eyes because the pain, yes there was pain, I don't know where it came from, but it was so complete coursing throughout my body that I was seeing pink, not black, but pink, and my knees burned. But the burning of my knees was probably from my fall. Everyone around me kind of stopped and began stooping over trying to figure out what was wrong. I was so scared, they looked like aliens to me, large faces, giant eyes; the noises from their mouths could have been Swahili for all I cared. I had no clue what they were saying, or what they were in fact. I just wept until the police came by with the paramedics. The doctors didn't understand what had happened, so they just said it was a heatstroke/nerves sort of thing. The temperature was a cool 17 degrees Celsius that day.

Troy had had to pick me up. The doctors had called and Troy wasn't happy about it. Apparently there was a party and Troy was the guest of honour and I had made Troy late. But Troy didn't mind, Troy liked me; I think. Well… Troy did give me hug and told the others to look after me. But I hadn't needed any looking after; I had felt fine right after I got out of the ambulance.

I think it happens cause I force my mind to float around too long while I'm working. Then again, it could be something else, but I'm too scared to tell anyone how bad it really is; not a doctor, and not even my friends. What if it's brain cancer or something like that? This time, I'm lucky; my disorientation lasts for only a couple of seconds.

I realize that I'm in front of Mike's Coffee, my favourite after work meeting place. I swing open the door and bells tinkle hollowly as I step inside. My high-heeled boots click as I walk across the black-and-white checked tile floor. The floor, as always, reminds me again of the game of checkers; or perhaps it is chess that I'm remembering.

The shop is half empty, half full, and half insane. People sit upon the cracked, red vinyl seats, dull now from constant use, sipping at their drinks slowly. They suck caffeine through straws, eyes half shut, half open, the best of both worlds; they try their hardest to stay awake at such an ungodly hour. Some customers sip from tiny, chipped, porcelain espresso cups. Others have gone for some more sanitary containers; lattes seem to be in favour at this time of day. The clear plastic cup caps are pierced by long neon coloured plastic straws and they stand out against the customers pale white late night (or early morning) faces amazingly. They all seem to be made of white plaster. Except for the thin African female sipping from her pink plastic straw in the corner; her straw stands out against her dark, chocolate brown skin. She does not have pale skin. (Duh.) I wonder if it's harder to get make up if your skin is dark. I recall the thousands of commercials I have watched in my short years on earth. They all have Caucasian females demonstrating the wonderful effects of their makeup.

Big Mike, the owner of this _fine _establishment, (note my sarcasm) and self-proclaimed bouncer of his shop, is behind the counter, as usual. I notice that my friend hasn't finished her shift yet, so I approach the counter. Big Mike turns to me, the perfect stereotype for a bartender in a sleazy strip club or some other dirty place. He has a dirty dishrag hanging over his shoulder and was using an equally grubby dishrag to wipe away at an espresso cup. He had once been a professional bodybuilder, way back in his youth, so he was heavily muscled; unfortunately for him, the passing years had turned much of his muscle to fat. A huge, badly stained apron stretched its way across his ample stomach.

"The usual," I said to him, giving him a wave of my hand. "I want a strawberry frap wannabe."

He grinned and put down his espresso cup to grab a plastic one. As he filled it with strawberry goodness, he asked, "Good day?" in his usual, gruff tone.

I nod silently and watch as he pulled out a lid for my drink. I chose a red straw from a box on the counter and placed it between my lips while he put the cap on my frap wannabe. I like to chew on plastic; it's an odd habit I picked up in my childhood and haven't been able to let go. It's oddly comforting.

He shoved the frap at me and I grabbed it. Big Mike began wiping the espresso cup again and I recalled just why I always ordered things that cam in one-use plastic cups. Big Mike was a nice guy, but he just didn't understand the use of washing dishes well. He usually just stuck them in a pot of boiling water until everything came loose and wiped away everything with a dirty rag.

Big Mike waited as I hungrily gulped down about an eighth of my frap wannabe. It was so good and cool; just the thing I needed to calm me down and wake me up. I could feel my mind starting to concentrate on regular things, rather than bumble its way around wherever it wanted.

Big Mike was still standing there while I sighed my contentment. Happy, I bared one of my breasts to him, quickly flipping my nipple to make it hard. I pulled down my tube top before the other customers noticed my means of payment. They didn't; they were all too involved in sucking all the caffeine out of their drinks to bother looking at me.

Frowning, Big Mike rang up an imaginary cost on the till. "Only one?" he growled out as he handed me two twenty-dollar bills.

I grinned at him and tucked the two bills into my hidden pocket. I'm guessing it looks like I'm feeling myself up because Big Mike hands me another twenty and grins back at me. I put it away and pick up my frap wannabe. "Inflation Big Mike," I explain to him. "Blame it all on inflation."

He nodded and went back to wiping his dirty cup with his dirty rag. I smiled again and walked away chewing on my red straw, heading for a back booth to await my friend. Big Mike had no clue about was inflation was but all he did was nod. He's a nice guy.

I sit down in my booth and stare out the window. It's still dark. My reflection stares back at me. I allow my mind to wander some more; I'm not ready to deal with reality just yet. I sip quietly on my cheap rip off of a frappuccino wannabe and continue to stare at my reflection. It helps keep my thoughts off of what's really on my mind.

In order to stay sane, when I do my jobs, I don't… think about what I'm doing. I allow my mind to drift away to keep away the pain. I did not choose my job, and I do not want my job. And yet, without it I cannot survive. No not the money issue, money is easy to make if you understand certain things, but the being hunted down by my pimp issue.

When my mind wanders, it hits on the most stupid topics. These topics include: how a telephone works, how many pennies can fit up a persons nose, the amount of spiders one inhales while sleeping, etc. As I have already said before, these random thoughts keep me from realizing what I am doing at the time I am doing said act. If I were to realize what I was doing, I would probably break down in tears.

In fact, that happened many times in my first few weeks at my job. Yes, I call it a job; I am someone who gives services to customers. That is what someone with a job does; they serve customers. But as I was saying, many times I would end up crying in the middle of a job. Several times I was able to pass it off as sheer ecstasy, but at other times I wasn't very lucky. My pimp was complained to, and I was punished. I learned that the easiest way to alleviate my feelings and pain was to blank out and send my thoughts in random directions. It may be surprising, (or not surprising) but many times while I do my false orgasm routine, I am thinking about what kind of font is the easiest to read. Said question troubles me at odd times and I find myself returning to it at peculiar moments. I still haven't figured out which font is most easily read.

"Sakura," breathes out a voice from across from me. I tear my eyes away from my reflection.

Oh… Shall I introduce myself before I introduce my friend? That would be polite. I am Sakura; I am a female of the human race; my age does not matter; I am a prostitute under the supervision of Troy, my pimp.

The female in front of me sips at a vanilla latte, or something like that. I know that it's vanilla, that's all she ever orders. Her name is Tomoyo; she is also a female of the human race; her age does not matter either; she is also a prostitute under the supervision of Troy.

We have known each other for about four years or so, ever since Troy bought out a pimp from the lower West Side. Tomoyo was one of the prostitutes he bought off of Dice. At the age of twelve, we were both placed in the same room; sadly enough, we were not the youngest ones there. Three other females of the age of eleven were also employed by Troy at the time. The youngest of those three has died of AIDS, having taken a "tumble in the hay" "without a raincoat." We were all in bad spirits after that for a while. But life goes on, as does my tale.

Tomoyo and I became good friends in our time spent together. Being forced to live with each other did that to most people. You either became the best of friends or the worst of enemies. Which reminds me, if you are the worst of enemies… aren't you the best of friends? Because you're the _worst_ of enemies… which makes you not good enemies… Not good enemies are friends. And the worst of enemies are the best of friends? I confuse myself and I digress. That's not a good combination.

Hmm, where was I? Ah, yes, Tomoyo. Dear, purple-haired Tomoyo. She is… sitting across from me and starting to get up. I look outside the window. Woot, she has a car. I wonder where she got it. I hope she didn't just go around switching licence plates again. The police aren't very fun people to have chats with.

I get up and am suck at my frap rip-off before I realize that it's done. I take out the straw and toss the cup into the garbage can, and then place the straw between my teeth. Winking at Big Mike, we exit, the bell acknowledging our departure.

It's a red car, a convertible, but the top is in use, so we won't be too cold for the ride home. Cool, it matches my straw. We get in and buckle up, Tomoyo in the driver's seat. I lean my chair back all the way that it can go and fall asleep, straw still clenched between my teeth; I do not have Tomoyo's stamina. That girl can go for hours and keep on going long after I've fallen over from lack of sleep.

We drive down the deserted roads. Even though it's around three thirty in the morning, several cars cruise by us. At least, that's what usually happens when I'm awake. In my state of heavy sleep, I didn't see anything. I sleep well usually, sleep is something of a luxury item for me; I catch it whenever and wherever I can. Sometimes I have the weirdest dreams… Like the time that I tried to go up the stairs, but the noodles kept… I'm digressing again. It's not my fault. I'm still not fully here right now. At the moment, I'm allowing my mind to drift. I don't like crying in cars; I'd much rather cry in the safety of the shower, where no one can hear me.

My nap is well used; I awake refreshed and happy in front of our house, Tomoyo shaking me gently. I'm holding my straw in my hand when we get out of the car and enter the house.

I toy with my straw and lock the door behind us. We're right inside the kitchen and would you look at that? Right in front of us stands Troy.

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Boo…. It's short, I know, but… think of it as a prologue… =) Other chapters that follow will probably be longer… I hope. ; Review now… you know the drill.. REVIEW OR DIE OF NISHIES, A RARE FORM OF RABIES OBTAINED FROM THE INFAMOUS, NISHA-MONSTER. chomps teeth menacingly

Don't fo'get to review… Or… I shall bite you and infect you with NISHIES. Which is always capitalized. 'Cause it's special. =)


	2. Troy's Ritual

Oh, yeah! Reviews galore. Okay, not so many reviews. But still, reviews! I feel special. I give special thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially my first reviewer-y human type thing, BlueHarlequin, who's review I found to be quite inspiring for some odd reason. =]Anywho, I shall leave my homework for Socials yet again and continue on with Sakura's silly little escapades. Do note, this is the first story I have ever done in first person and so, the verb tenses will be very fcked up. I repeat, verb tenses shall be VERY FCKED UP. That is all. 

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**[Reviews]**

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**BlueHarlequin**: Thanks for noticing the rambling-ness of the story. I was trying to show how her mind keeps … going off track. Sakura as a pro is something that I've always kind of thought about and giggled in the back of mind about. I was always like… hey… wouldn't it be funny if… I have weird ideas. 

**Awai-umi**: Fwah-sha… I'm glad you think it's great. I feel happy now. Just go check your history to see what we were talking about. =P 

**Cherry Jade**: For once I shall update rather quickly. Here comes the next instalment. I hope it pleases you. =.= Was it just me, or did that sound bad? 

**SS43v3r**: Thanks for thinking it's good. Te he, have I made you speechless? I'm just trying to think of a reason for such a short review =P LoL, I'm just kidding. 

**Only Sakura**: LoL, how do you know that Syaoran is coming to save the day? I might change the entire plot line just because of that remark. LoL, just kidding. But I'm not saying that Syao's going to save the day… but I'm not saying he isn't either. =P 

**StrawBerryJunkie**: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Finding Hope will be updated… someday… when my life has passed me by… I like that song =] Did you see my carefully done change of subject? So subtle that you didn't even notice it, right? LoL. 

* * *

**[Initial Beginning]**

**"…" Speech**

**'…' Thoughts**

**[I'm getting 93% in my summer Socials course. Gee, am I proud or what? Sneaking this into my A/N. It's such a bad thing to do, and yet… I still do it. =) Sue me. Actually, don't… How about you stop reading this and get on to the disclaimer?] A/N's**

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Yukio and Tony and Troy and any other miscellaneous characters I may have come up with. In no way whatsoever do I have any umm... ownership thingies for CCS. _

* * *

_Drifting to the End_

_Chapter Two_

_Troy's Ritual_

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When I left you, Tomoyo and I were in the kitchen, and had just realized that the great, invincible Troy was blocking our way into the house. 

Before I go on, let me explain something. Troy is not a bad person. Troy is a human being, just like the rest of us and is entitled to do as Troy wishes to do. Why? This is because Troy is Troy. The logic behind that statement is that Troy is above all others; all the other humans in this life are pawns for Troy to use at Troy's own will. If Troy decides to destroy a pawn, that does not matter. If Troy decides to disable a pawn, it does not matter. Troy will not get in trouble, because Troy is Troy. You cannot go against Troy. Troy is like a waterfall. You can't go up; you must comply with its wishes and be sucked down into a vortex of swirling waters at the bottom. Whether you get pulled down into the whirlpool and die, or swim happily out to sea is Troy's decision. All of Troy's decisions are final. 

Troy has many titles. By titles, I mean nicknames. For examples, many people know Troy just as you know Troy, by Troy's name, Troy. But others know Troy by other names, such as, Troy the Pusher, Troy the Druggie, Troy the Drunk, Troy the Bastard, Troy the Player, the list goes on and on. Other people, such as myself, may get onto even more personal terms with Troy and be able to call Troy, Troy _My_ Pimp, Troy _My_ Punisher. Note the emphasis on "My." This does not mean that Troy belongs to me, on the contrary; I belong to Troy. 

Oops, I've messed up somewhere. I haven't been sharing, what a bad girl I am. I'm taking Troy all for myself. Troy is _Our_ Punisher; Troy is _Our _Pimp; Troy is _Our_ Destroyer. I say our because Troy has many prostitutes, many people with which to toy with and control. So many pawns, so little time. I never really understood why those weird little pieces in chess were called pawns. Is it cause there heads are tiny and circular? Or is it because the only reason they're there is to be used to protect the higher powers. I always think they're really stupid, those pawns. Why on earth are they sacrificing themselves for their King and Queen? Those two idiots are messed up anyways, it's not like the pawns get any kind of benefit from it or anything. They should start a union or something. What I mean is that it's just not fair to… I'm digressing again. You'll have to stop me when I do that. It's a nasty little habit I picked up from when I was a kid, the same as chewing on plastic. It gets on people's nerves and they get mad at the fact that I won't shut up. 

Now, all of those titles we've given Troy, they all sound like movie titles. You know, those movies like, Conan the Destroyer, where you _know_ the little people are going to get the crap beat out of them. But it's not like that. Not really. Troy is also so many good things for us. Troy is our provider, our keeper, our lover, our parental figure. Troy is our everything, good and bad. 

Now, back to where I was. I hope I haven't missed anything. Nope, I haven't. Amazing how my thoughts are so in-depth and yet take up so little time to think. We're all still standing, staring at each other. Tomoyo and I are waiting for Troy to start speaking. One does not speak in Troy's presence unless if Troy speaks to us or if Troy allows us to speak. This isn't something anyone tells you, it's something you get beaten into you. After a while, you realize that every time you open your mouth, you get hit. 

"Sup, ladies?" Troy drawls out. Troy's voice is oily and smooth, like honey, or molasses. Troy doesn't speak like a normal person. Troy's found a way to make Troy's voice more pleasing to people's ears than normal. It's quite soothing. Troy doesn't feel feelings; Troy oozes feelings. Tonight, Troy oozes out good vibes; Troy is in a good mood. I suppose that the other girls have made a good profit tonight. Troy doesn't really want to know what's up; Troy never does. What Troy really means is "Show me how much money you made." Troy has weird code words; you come to realize them after a while. I haven't figure out why Troy made them. Maybe it's cause Troy wants us to feel slightly free or something weird like that. I don't know how to explain what I'm thinking at the moment. 

Tomoyo decided to go first; she stepped forward. Troy's Ritual had begun. I placed my straw back between my lips and bite down. The end is already squished flat. I continue to choose as I watch. Even though I do this almost every night, this ritual still captivates me. Okay, that's exaggeration, but it does intrigue me. I can pay utmost attention to it, which is odd, seeing how I have a very short attention span. My short attention span is both a boon and a curse. The boon is that if someone is talking and it's _super_ boring, my mind automatically tunes it out. The curse is that if something important is happening, such as rules are being stated, my mind wanders away and I lose a lot of information. Luckily for me, Tomoyo is always nearby when things like that happen. Well, almost always nearby. 

Troy looked Tomoyo up and down slowly. Ah, yes, the wonders of the ritual. I tuned in. Tomoyo's stared straight ahead, her back ramrod straight, her hair falling in loose waves down her back. Her eyes tonight were hazel. That damned woman kept changing her eye colour; I still don't know what her real eye colour is. Kind of weird isn't it? Not knowing your best friend's eye colour. 

Troy walked around her, looking around her at all angles. Now that we were in the kitchen, with all that good lighting, you could see that Tomoyo needed to shower; her legs were glistening in an odd way. I looked down; mine were glistening too. 

Troy ignored me and looked into Tomoyo's eyes, trying to decide if she was high or not. She passed that test, and Troy brought out the breathalyser. We're not allowed to drink on the job, and if we do, one glass is our maximum. It's a good rule. It keeps us from being stupid. 

Troy is thoroughly satisfied. Troy grunts and motions to the kitchen counter. Tomoyo stands across from Troy, the counter the only thing that separates them. Ever noticed that "separate" is spelled with an "a" in the centre, not an "e"? I have. An easy way to remember that is, "You separate a rat." Get it? Sep A Rate A Rat… Separate a rat from… never mind. 

Tomoyo places her hand down her skirt, which is equally as short as mine. Her hand comes out full of bills and change. Twice more her hand goes down, and twice more bills and change are dropped onto the counter. Troy brings out a calculator and a moneybox from a cupboard and begins counting. As Troy counts, Tomoyo stands still and silent, like a soldier awaiting commands. 

It takes several minutes for Troy to finish counting the money. When the counting is over, a large smile is prominent across the face of our pimp. "You've made me a rich human Tomoyo-chan," Troy drawls out. Troy passes out a bunch of money back to Tomoyo and grunts; that's the signal to leave. She leaves without looking behind, grabbing her 25% along the way. She knows I will be up sooner or later. 

I step up, plastic straw still in my mouth. Troy takes in my outfit. I sigh on the inside. I know what I'm wearing and I think about it. My small bikini top is a sparkling dark plum; my skirt a tiny scrap of leather that I'm not too fond of; my legs are swathed in fishnets, mind you, not those cheap ones from the Bay, but the real fishnets, where the holes are huge and visible from fifteen feet away. My shoes are the mark of a true hooker; six-inch heels of brilliant black cording. They're outrageous and one of my favourite pairs. 

Troy walks around me, taking me in. I suppose Troy is taking in the fact that my auburn brown hair is more tousled than usual. It's pretty short; it only reaches my shoulders, but I have these weird choppy bangs, which make me seem older than I really am. Or is it younger than I really am? The weird thing about the choppy bangs is that I can use them to mess up my age. I can go from 14 to 21 and back again with the help of a few hair bands and a few sprays of hair spray. It was Troy who chose my style. 

I refrain the urge to yawn as Troy walks about me. It always takes forever when its your turn. My green eyes grow restless and I spin them around trying to amuse myself. Their colour changes from the flat, dull green that they take on during Troy's Ritual to a glittering emerald when I'm amused. I like my eyes. They're all that reminds me of my parents. 

Troy's giant eyeballs cloud my vision as Troy peers into them. Troy's eyes are brown and flat; unlike my own, they always seem that way. Even when Troy laughs or smiles or orgasms, they remains flat. But that's another story. 

Anywho, I suppose I passed the first exam, the breathalyser is pulled out. I lean over slightly to breathe into the tiny tube and feel Troy's eyes lower to my breasts. I'm not annoyed, I'm not insulted; I don't really feel anything. It's something I've gotten used to. If one leans over, Troy has the right to stare. I pass the breathalyser. I'm happy. So far, so good. 

I hope I made as much money as I thought I did. I was in many cars this night. Not all of our work is done in cars. Sometimes we do private calls. Private calls are when Troy is reached directly by an important client. We are chaperoned to the clients' houses, condominiums, or apartments. In there, we do whatever they want. Some of those people are really weird. I remember this one guy; all he wanted to do was ask me questions about sex and how it felt and how to make it worth a woman's while. It was the easiest job I ever had. I even got free food after he finished questioning me. 

Troy walks to the counter, already the moneybox is open and I follow. Once I'm in the correct position, I start to empty my pocket, which is full. I take that as a good sign. I don't say anything, but my mouth is aching to move, I hate staying still for any amount of time. I do tongue exercises in my mouth. It may seem stupid, but it works. I wonder if I should allow my mind to wander. Feeling rather rebellious, I do. 

Several minutes later, the smooth words, "Rich, my babies are making me rich!" break through my barrier. I've managed to have a Troy alarm built into my system. I don't like blanking out near Troy, in case I don't hear Troy, and Troy gets angered, and then I get beat up. But I think I've made myself a Troy alarm; Every time Troy talks, I snap out of my dazes. It's pretty snazzy, right? 

The moneybox clicks shut and Troy holds it. Then Troy walks around the counter and behind me. _Gees,_ I think, _I'm spent, leave me alone!_ But I don't say a word out loud. Troy places the moneybox on the counter again and starts rubbing against my back. I squeeze my eyes shut. Did I mention that Troy is also our lover? I did? Well… here's your proof in case you didn't believe me. 

Troy's crotch is rubbing against my ass so I decide I better do something before Troy gets mad. I start leaning back into Troy and blah de blah, blah. No, we don't go all the way. Tonight, Troy merely squeezes my breasts a few times and messes around with my clit as I stand. And how exactly do Troy's fingers find their way to my clit? Well, that's where the wondrous invention of crotch-less underwear fits in. All of us wear it; it makes everything so much more efficient. Anywho, the second I orgasm, Troy is up and away, moneybox in hand, running out of the kitchen. I suppose Troy is about to go get someone else to help Troy out. 

I yawn as loudly as I can and stretch to the top of my toes. My height irks me. I'm short, shorter than Tomoyo. For a fourteen-year-old… that sucks; for a sixteen-year-old, it's bad; for an eighteen-year-old… well, by this time, I've already given up any thoughts about magical growth spurts. I shall be the midget queen forever! Lucky for me, Troy likes my height. It makes it so much easier to look twelve if you have the height. I'm not going to tell you just how tall I am, I'm too vain to do that; maybe later on. Right now, I'm tired and I have to go take a shower. 

I'm going to go up the stairs. 

I'm going to go up the stairs.

I'm going to… cry. The tears spill out and in seconds my mascara is running. I tell you, there is no real water-proof makeup. The fact that I probably look like a racoon makes me cry harder. 

I feel so dirty, like a slut. I stop crying for a second… _I thought I was a slut? _ Okay, that just makes me cry even harder. Nobody hears me though. We prostitutes have magical powers; magical powers of acting, magical powers of persuasion, magical powers of seduction and magical powers of silent crying. The magical powers of silent crying come in handy often here; Troy doesn't allow crying. Troy does not believe that we have anything to cry about. Many of the others believe in this, I think I'm the only one that doesn't. 

Here I am, with a roof over my head, a good paying job, friends galore, plenty of food to eat and drinks to drink, tons of lovers, and I'm not happy. I don't get it. Isn't that what life is all about? 

I grab a bunch of paper napkins and wipe away at my tears. I manage to smudge my makeup even more. I growl in despair, I'm such a klutz. I'm very stupid too. I've just realized that there's a sink right next to me. I wash away my makeup._ I'm clean! _ I pick up my money that Troy left on the counter. _No you're not._

I have many voices in my head. They're all me. I don't like them much. I'm going to go take my shower now. Maybe the hot water will clear out my head. I need to get all this sperm off of me anyways. _Gross…_ I wonder if Tomoyo left her special peach body scrub in the shower again. I hope she did. That stuff smells good. 

* * *

Mrow. The end. Damn it, it's short again! I don't get it. No matter what I do, it's short! Oh well… maybe next time it'll be longer. I better go do some real work now =P Review me and I might give you a magical jelly bean of doom. If you don't… I might give you NISHIES. =] 


End file.
